


Two Men, One Pipe

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Okay A Smudge Of Plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-War of the Ring, pipe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21749353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: “Is that my pipe?” The king asked, his voice surprisingly deep, startling even him with its raspiness. He was right in front of the bed, his gaze glued to the young man, and he felt his knees going weak when Faramir jerked his head up slightly.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 64





	Two Men, One Pipe

**Author's Note:**

> Hannon le, Mermaid Sheenaz, meleth nin! <3 For the idea and for keeping my work in line :) 
> 
> Enjoy everyone!

It was already quite late when King Elessar could finally close the heavy doors to his office and open the ones to his bedchambers. It was one of the rare days when his trusted steward - and the crowned Prince of Ithilien - had finished his daily work before him and was probably already lounging in their quarters. 

Well…  _ crowned prince.  _ Aragorn smiled thinking about it. Faramir hadn’t been an heir to the throne, because there had been no throne to begin with. King Elessar had decreed its appearance within the first month of his rule, signed and sealed the appropriate documents, and had made Faramir into a prince. He had placed a silvery circlet upon Faramir’s brow with his own hands, then had proceeded to throw him heated looks, until Faramir had pushed him into a small, shadowy nook and against a cold wall inside it.  The circlet had been missing for an hour then, because it had blocked Aragorn’s fingers on their quest through his steward’s fiery hair. 

Grinning at the memory, feeling way hotter than he should in the middle of winter, the king made his way down the corridor, until he reached his bedchambers. Pushing the doors open, he slipped inside quietly, pausing right after he stepped in. 

Faramir was already there, as expected. Lounging in bed with a book… as expected. What was not expected, however, was the state of his undress. Although…  _ no, _ that was not quite true. 

Through months of knowing him, starting at the very beginning and continuing on until now, Aragorn had become aware that the prince was not as timid and shy as people made him to be in their talks and stories. Sure, the young man was far from his flamboyant brother, but it did not mean that he cowered from any attention bestowed upon him.  And certainly not from the amorous attentions of his king.

The same king who was now standing in the bedchambers, one hand on the knob of the barely closed door, eyes wide in astonishment. 

The prince -  _ his _ prince - was naked in their bed, as evidenced by his bare chest and a slender shin poking out from under the heavy, fur-trimmed blanket. Faramir’s coppery hair was an uncombed mess, creating  a fiery halo around his face. Together with the soft light provided by a few small candles and a crackling fireplace, the picture in front of Aragorn was so breathtaking that he couldn’t help but stare in awe. It was easy to forget that Faramir was this beautiful human being, covered as he was in court by heavy robes and leather vests. This, here, resting on their bed and reading a book quietly, was a creature out of legends, a mythical being created solely for the purpose of getting the High King on his knees. 

Aragorn would fall to the ground this instant - he knew his place well in the face of such beauty - but  his mind was still irreversibly, repeatedly, getting stuck on the sliver of a pale knee he could see just underneath the very edge of the furry fringe. 

Swallowing heavily, the king wandered deeper into the chamber, shedding the outer layer of his clothing, feeling suddenly much too hot. It provided no relief, for right when Aragorn had managed to gather enough sense to form a complete sentence, the vision in front of him shifted, and  one hand rose from behind the book, holding -    
“Is that my pipe?” The king asked, his voice surprisingly deep, startling even him with its raspiness. He was right in front of the bed, his gaze glued to the young man, and he felt his knees going weak when Faramir jerked his head up slightly. 

He must have been at least surprised by Aragorn’s stealthy approach, but he never showed it. A pair of blue eyes focused on the king, the hand hesitating only for the briefest of moments in its travel upwards, and Aragorn watched, bewitched, as Faramir’s lips closed around the very tip of the pipe. He gave a suck, a small thing indicated by his barely moving cheeks, and let the smoke out, puffing it so that a small cloud formed in front of his face. 

“Yes, I believe the pipe is yours. You have left it unattended for three days in the pot of the rosebush… I thought I’d rescue it from its inevitable demise…” The prince observed, puffing out another tiny cloud. Aragorn groaned, fighting the urge to slap himself. He had, indeed, left the pipe in one of the flower pots on the balcony. The snow had fallen sometime later and the pipe had been covered by it, thus escaping the former-ranger’s keen eyesight. 

_ But, _ Aragorn thought, looking at Faramir,  _ who could blame him when he had such a vision walking around him on an everyday basis? _ _ There were sights far more important than his old pipe…  _

Unaware and thus undisturbed by Aragorn’s thoughts, Faramir smoked on, spreading the sweet scent of the pipe weed throughout the chamber. The king felt dizzy with it - or maybe it was just his prince’s countenance? His eyes were glimmering and the corners of his lips were curling upwards, and Aragorn groaned, one hand sneaking down to adjust his flesh in the no-longer-fitting leggings. Faramir caught the movement and his gaze traveled along his king’s body, before his eyes shot up again, a grin spreading slowly over his features, teeth showing, the tip of the pipe grasped between them. 

With slow moves, looking almost like a dream, the steward levered himself up and to his knees. Getting out from under the blanket, showing Aragorn that he was indeed naked underneath it, he crawled down the length of the bed, the book forgotten and the pipe still between his fingers, until he was face to face with his liege.    
“My lord…” Faramir breathed, one hand fisting in Aragorn’s shirt and tugging him in for a long, knee-melting kiss. 

Surging against him, with his feet still planted firmly on the cold floor, Aragorn grabbed Faramir’s head. He felt as if he was drowning in Faramir’s taste, in the smoky, sugary scent of the pipe, and in a desperate attempt at grounding himself, he let his fingers get lost in the wild mane of auburn hair. The prince gave a moan of approval, but pulled away before long, eyeing his king. Without uttering the smallest of words,  Faramir handed the pipe back to Aragorn, his hands busying themselves in the laces below Aragorn’s waist, undoing them with practiced ease. 

The pipe almost fell from the king’s hand when Faramir freed him from the leggings and brought his mouth down, enveloping his flesh in wet heat. 

It all became a bit blurred after that - Aragorn had trouble focusing on not dropping the pipe, as its contents were still glowing and giving off tiny wisps of smoke. He was trying to find a way to dispose of it safely, thinking about chugging it through the window in his desperation, but Faramir chose this moment to take in more of him, steadying himself with his hands planted on Aragorn’s backside, and the king moaned helplessly,  his free hand fisting in his prince’s hair, the fingers of the other curling reflexively around the pipe.

“Faramir!” This one word, spoken reverently and in warning all in the same instance, was the only coherent thought he was capable of forming. Soon enough, though, it ceased to matter. His wonderful young steward did something utterly wicked with his tongue, and when  Aragorn - curious as he was wont to be \- looked down, he caught a glimpse of one of Faramir’s hands traveling low, grasping his own manhood and stroking quickly. It was suddenly too much for the king, and he fought the gravitation as he came, spilling into the eager mouth, jerking in place as his whole body seized. 

Faramir finished soon after, lazily cleaning his king up with his tongue, making him tremble and fall down on the bed finally. Aragorn rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, panting and shivering, only dimly aware that Faramir went to fetch a soft cloth with which he wiped himself down. Coming back to the bed, the prince disrobed him completely, then covered him with the fur-trimmed blanket.  Only when he reached out and pried Aragorn’s fingers from around the pipe he was still clutching in a more or less upright position did Aragorn come to his senses. He looked up, craning his neck so that he could look at Faramir settling himself comfortably in his previous position, the book back in his lap, the pipe in his hand. 

“Mir…” Aragorn started, pushing himself up and shifting until he was level with his lover.    
“Yes?” Faramir inquired, and when his eyes focused on Aragorn, sharp like the edge of his sword but with a fire of never-ending love in them, the king forgot what he wanted to say.    
“Nothing.” He said, smiling stupidly, then yawned and, after a quick internal debate, decided that  Faramir’s chest looked too comfortable not to rest his head on it. With a sigh, he settled down, smirking when the prince blew away a strand of unruly hair that tickled his nose. 

“What are you reading?” The king asked after a while, his eyes sleepily following the text in front of him.   
“The Tale of Three Stones,” Faramir remarked, then puffed the smoke again. Aragorn sighed happily, breathing in the sweet scent and the musk left by their quick lovemaking.   
“Is it interesting?”   
“It is about trolls that found a magic stone and tried to buy a kingdom with it.”   
“Sounds good.” The king yawned again, his body slowly getting ready for the night. He nuzzled the soft skin under his cheek lazily, content to just lie there and listen to his lover for a while. “Read it aloud?”   
“If you wish,” Faramir answered, then twisted slightly to put the pipe on the small bedside table. When he settled back down again, he switched hands, one of them holding the book open, the other threading gentle fingers through Aragorn’s hair, messing it up and straightening it out again. Lowering his voice into a calming murmur, he began to read. _“The troll was not happy with the way he was treated by the sailor, so he…”_

The king didn’t know when he drifted off to sleep. Already dreaming, he couldn’t see Faramir’s soft smile either. He witnessed it only in the morning, when he woke his prince up with small kisses and delicate touches. 


End file.
